Five, Minus One
by Catalina Day
Summary: Prompt: Four times Dean Winchester shot down a member of the same sex, and one time he didn't. Not wincest.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural; that privilege is all on Eric "The Kripkeeper" Kripke and friends. I just play with the action figures sometimes, and make funny comic-book noises when they fight. :B

**A/N:** Okay, this was a challenge/prompt issued by me on a livejournal community I created: The Supernatural Fanfiction Challenge. community(dot)livejournal(dot)com / spnficchallenge if you're interested. It got strangely angsty at the end, but I kind of like it anyway. Might write an alternate version, might not.

Barely edited, not beta'd. Here's hoping I did good!

**Summary:** Prompt: Four times Dean Winchester shot down a member of the same sex, and one time he didn't. Not wincest.

* * *

**Four times Dean Winchester shot down a member of the same sex, and one time he didn't.**

* * *

**1.**

The first time was kind of a shock, 'cause one minute they'd been talking about cars and chicks, and the next Dean was becoming way too intimate with another dude's mouth. So Dean did the only thing his panicked teenage brain could think to do: he'd decked him.

Sure; maybe not the brightest (or nicest) thing he'd ever done. But in his defense, Booker Greyson was twice his size, and while he wasn't drunk enough to lose his balance, he was just _about_ drunk enough to be incredibly forward (and possibly a little mean about it).

When the down-turned corners of Booker's mouth and his sad eyes reminded him (rather disturbingly, given the scenario) of Sammy, he did a rather un-Dean-like thing. He apologized.

'I'm just not that kinda girl, Greyson...'

Okay, so he did it in a very Dean-like way, but- whatever.

Booker had nodded, laughed, and the talk of cars continued into the night.

And then they drew a skull and crossbones on their high school's football field in lighter fluid and set it on fire.

Really, it was male bonding at it's finest.

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**2.**

The second time was a misunderstanding. Apparently, the guy really did just like his jacket, and the whole 'butt-touch' thing really _was_ just an accident. The bar was way overcrowded, after all. But that hadn't registered with Dean until _after_ he'd said something incredibly douche-y.

One black eye and a split lip later had the other guy laid out on the floor, and Dean out in his car on the way to his family's current shitty apartment.

John had asked him what had happened. He hadn't gone into too much detail beyond saying, 'Bar fight. Some asshole sucker-punched me.'

It had really pissed him off, though. Because that could've easily been him. Had things turned out differently- were it not for the fact that he knew what it was like to be considered a freak, an outsider (or any number of things, really)- _he_ could be the dick in a bar somewhere that tried to beat the shit out of some random guy just for thinking he was gay.

And, yeah, Dean had done himself the disservice of opening his mouth and letting words come out. That was just his charming personality shining through in all it's brilliant, sarcastic glory.

Poking at the bruised skin around his eye as he looked in the bathroom mirror, he suddenly grinned. In the end, he supposed, it didn't matter, because he _wasn't_ that guy. And a split lip and black eye in exchange for putting that major asshat _down_? Totally worth it.

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**3.**

The third time, it was all Sammy's fault. Sammy and the stupid fucking ghost that just _refused_ to leave his ex-boyfriend alone. Wouldn't stop killing anyone the guy felt even remotely attracted to. Which, yes, unfortunately, spelt all kinds of trouble for one Dean Winchester.

Dean knew he was sexy; hell, if he were gay, he wouldn't be able to resist himself either. But, as experience had already proved, he wasn't exactly the greatest at rejecting people. Especially guys. It was usually awkward, and someone nearly always got punched.

But it was all Sam's doing, because he'd _somehow_ managed to convince his older (and much smarter) brother that rolling with it was a good idea. Because then he could keep the violent, murderous spirit occupied while dad and little brother went to salt and burn the bones.

'Why me?' Dean wanted to know, and it had been a valid question.

'Because,' Sam had said, 'Trent's attracted to _you_. Not me. And I'm underage.'

Dean had merely glared and replied, 'You're enjoying this _way_ too much, dude.'

John had tried to hide a grin at the exchange, but (even being the all-powerful John Winchester and having the titles of Dad and Sir) still wasn't spared the wrath of Dean's heated glare.

---

He and Trent had gone on a _date_. And he had a feeling Sam had something to do with _that_, as well.

And then when he'd been slammed back-first into lover boy's bookcase, he'd briefly thought about throttling his brother. But Trent was no wilting flower, and when Dean had called for salt (his sawed-off being in the duffel by the door), the man had come through for him. Though if the thick layer of salt coating Dean's clothes and skin at the end of the night was anything to judge by, one might say he'd been a bit overzealous. But really, considering the situation, Dean was willing to let it go. After a really long shower. And soap. Lots of soap.

The 'goodbye'/'thank you' kiss had been spectacular (in Sam's opinion), but Sam had been sufficiently cowed later that night by the bruised back and two broken ribs his older brother sported from the showdown. And that was fine by Dean, as long as he never ever had to admit that, for a _guy_, Trent had been a pretty good kisser.

So, yeah. The third time, it was all Sammy's fault. But he only complained a little bit because, at the end of the day, they'd saved someone. They'd prevented more people from dying, and done their job. And, really? How could Dean feel bad about that?

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**4.**

The fourth time was surprisingly uneventful. Some guy with a fu-man-chu mustache full on propositioned him outside an ice-cream shop in Tempe, Arizona.

Dean, a bit taken aback, had simply said 'no thanks'. And the man had just smiled, nodded, and moved along.

He'd actually kind of admired the tenacity of the guy's facial hair, if he were to be honest. But there was really nothing to say about it, so when Sam walked up and handed him his cotton candy ice cream, he dug in and left it at that.

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**5.**

The first (and only) time Dean says yes, he is drunk.

He's at a bar somewhere in Boston, and there's this one guy who puts some AC/DC on the juke box and plays a mean game of pool. So good he almost hustles Dean out of some hard-earned cash. Almost. Because even drunk, Dean is still a phenomenal pool-player. Counting cards gets a little tricky, though.

Point is, he's alone in Boston in a bar, trying not to think about Sammy leaving for a new life without him, and without their dad. Trying not to care that he feels like an arm or a leg has been ripped off, but he can still feel it. Trying not to be angry with his father for being the way he is, because he knows the man did the best he could, and honestly? He might not've done any better.

And suddenly there's this guy who can almost beat him at pool, and who likes AC/DC, and is asking him back to his place, and Dean is suddenly- without any input from his brain- saying 'sure'. Like it's no big thing, and he's done this thousands of times. Which, he supposes, he has. Just not with another dude.

Back at the guy's apartment, all they do at first is drink beer and talk with a movie playing in the background. They don't talk about much important. Just random stuff, like why reality TV sucks ass, and why '67 seemed to be the best year for cars. And then, just like that, they're kissing.

It's weird, and it makes Dean's stomach turn. Not in a bad way, but not... entirely... in a good way, either. The newness of it is frightening and exhilarating. The world lurches beneath him, flipping end over end until he's sprawled on a refreshingly clean-smelling mattress in a room somewhere in Boston while the leaves are changing color outside, and suddenly he's not thinking about anything, _anything_, but the fingertips ghosting over his skin and the way it sends the most peculiar shivers racing up his spine.

He leaves before the sun comes up, because he doesn't want to remember this guy's face. It doesn't seem like that should be important, but it is.

By the time he's found his way back to the Impala, he's stone-cold sober. Starts her up, and rumbles off into the morning.


End file.
